Green
by diradevito
Summary: Fiyero loves red. For him it stands for passion and for love. He loves when she blushes red and loves her red lips. He loves her so much he wants to paint the world in red. And maybe he does. - Maybe Shiz-era. -


Disclaimer: Still don't own Wicked.

Warning: None? I think.

Fiyero loves red. It's a wonderfully bright color and to him it stands for passion and love. Sweet love, that some may think he doesn't know about, even though he does.

He adores the color because it's crisp and reminds him of fresh fruits. The rich flavor. The soft texture. And the fact that they leave his fingers sticky with juice. He adores the many shades of red. Raspberries, cherries, strawberries. It is beautiful really. It also reminds him of the fading sun. How a day ends. How a new day starts. Somehow he likes the idea that live is an ongoing circle. To him it sounds like he can rely on it. The fact that no matter what happens the sun will set and reappear again. Even when he's gone. That some things will never change. It gives him the certainty that life will not fall apart, even when it feels like it.

What else it reminds him of is blood. He doesn't like the thought that much, but he can't seem to push it away. Blood is just as red as the sunset or the fruits he loves so much, so he's somehow naturally thinking about it. Why he doesn't like it is quite obvious to him. Blood ties a family together. And his parents aren't all too proud of him. It's his own doing he knows it, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. He just can't handle the pressure sometimes. It's too much. A cross to heavy to bear for him alone. His attitude is nothing he was born with. It just feels like the easiest way to handle his life this way.

Life's less painless for the brainless..

Blood also means wounds and wounds hurt. He never liked the thought of hurting, even though he does his fair share of it. Not physically, but that doesn't make the pain more bearable. Not that anyone knows.

Or so he hopes.

It also makes him remember his past. And he doesn't want to remember his past. When he pulls his shirt off and strips out of his pants he can still see the scars. There aren't so many of them and they are small, but they exist nonetheless. And he hates it. A short period of his life he found comfort in blood. He found comfort in hurting and found comfort in wounds. He liked the red that came from the cuts he inflicted on himself and liked the pain. That was what he did it for. The pain. Since he came to love the color red for passion and love, like he does now, he came to loathe the pain. He doesn't even want to think of the fact that he wanted to dull pain with more pain. A different kind, but still. He knows why he did it and he knows why it worked for him, but he also knows that in the end he had red wounds all over him. Inside and out. Red became something he wasn't fond of anymore. So he changed that.

He still has the knife, but now it's safely tucked away. Sometimes he can feel the urge to draw blood again, but then he touches one of his scars and knows that it's not worth it. He'd feel worse afterwards.

He goes outside. Pushes the thought of that knife out of bis head. Sits on the grass, tucks leaves one by one and watches. He watches poppies bend with the wind. Beautiful red, because this is the red he loves. A lovely red. A good red. And because it's a good red he steals a petal and rubs it between his fingers.

Now, when he wants to see red on his skin, he goes to his room, squashes petals and makes paint. He himself doesn't use it, because he can't paint if the world depended on it, but he has a little sister whom he sends the paint to. He feels like he has to. Because he can't be there for her. Because he's a lousy brother. He's bad. But that doesn't mean that he can't do something good for her. She's the only one in his family who isn't disappointed in him. Not yet. So he pays her back beforehand. He knows that someday she will shake his head at all the unreasonable things he does. He does too. Until then he smears his body red with paint and sometimes his fingers red juice and he adores. Adores his body covered in red.

But never with blood. Never again.

Although something changed. In a mere moment. In a blink of an eye he was convinced that red from blood is maybe not entirely bad. That lips are only red, because there is blood cursing through the body. And that cheeks only flush because there is blood rushing trough thin veins. And this kind of blood is beautiful to him. This crimson red is as lovely as the red of poppies and fruits and a setting and rising sun.

He realized it in a sweet, brief moment, the moment he lost his heart; he fell in love. The hate he felt for blood, the blood that poured from the inside out, changed into love for the blood that makes the heart beat, makes kisses red and tender and cheeks delicate.

He wishes that she'd blushed more often.

For him.

Because of him.

He tells himself that he shouldn't be in love. He has already fallen too hard. It's no use telling himself, that he shouldn't fall in love. He already has. Deeply. So pure he never felt happier in his entire life. But he still shouldn't be in love. If he could he would deny himself this feeling forever. But he can't. And as soon as he sees her cheeks darken and imagines those red lips turn into a loving smile he doesn't want to anymore. He again thinks of blood as his heart beats faster and faster.

Fiyero loves red. Even more now that he feels the passion and the love it stands for. Sometimes he feels like he's overwhelmed by red. It's a good feeling. The best actually. And he never wants to lose it. Not even if it means losing all the things he cherished until now. He would give up all the red blood-ties to his family and all the red blushing from every female being on the planet just for her. He'd give every red he ever saw. The fruits. The paint. The sun. The poppies. Every petal left on earth.

For her he'd give anything. Be anything.

To kiss those red lips. Over and over again. To hold her. Be with her. He doesn't even know. Sometimes he thinks anything would be enough. But then he pictures her an knows that it's not true. He longs for something deep. Something so different from all the shallowness and self-centeredness.

It should be about her. Them. Deep and deeper. Deep into red and passion and love.

It sends a shiver down his spine. Ties his abdomen in knots.

He absently picks up petal after petal. His pockets are full of it. He doesn't even realize that he takes the red heads between his finger and pulls.

The smell is rich. The color intense. And before he realizes it he's back in his room making paint. His hands are full of it. Not a single spot has the color of flesh anymore and he likes it. The table is stained. The carpet. Papers and pencils.

And he makes more. More more more. And because the feeling does not satisfy him he splashes paint across the walls. On the floor. On his sheets. It's doesn't matter where exactly as long as its there.

He looks at it and he smiles. Smiles and it feels like his cheeks may split and his heart may escape his body, but it's okay. He wouldn't mind. Maybe his heart would find hers. Go straight to where it belongs.

He wishes for it.

He's exhausted and sweaty and breathes hard and needs to lay down, but that all doesn't matter, because he's happy. So damn happy. He lies down, on the floor, and stares up the ceiling, where are dots and dots and dots, so much he couldn't count them if he wanted to.

He forces his eyes to stay open, despite his fatigue and imagines her face between the red.

It's late and the sunset splays more crimson, ruby, cardinal, wine, scarlet, _red_. But before he can finally go to sleep he remembers that he still has something to do. Without getting up he pulls a bag from under his bed and opens it. It's filled with tiny jars, the ones he sends to his sister, and takes one, just one, for himself out. Like a few moments ago he dips his finger into it and writes something on his skin. Something in his favorite color. Something he wants to remember forever. Something he never wants to forget. Something he holds onto.

When he's finished his skin reads the word LOVE. It does because it's true. Because it's pure. Because it's everything he knows about himself anymore.

He needs to sleep.

As he closes his eyes flesh presses against red dots on carpeted floor and in betweens this maze of red red red there are those four scrawly letters. Simple. Plain. And written in the true color of his heart.

He falls asleep with a smile everywhere.

And this time the color is not red at all. He loves it sure, but compared to her it'll always be just second best.

**AN:** Fiyero and Elphaba are love. Also this could be seen as a companion piece to my other fic Red. Some parts are similar written, but it's not necessary to read it. Also the other story contains self-harm so.. Anyways thanks for reading. Mistakes you find? Well.. I think it's obvious that english is not my first language so keep them :p


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